


my friends are a different breed

by SomeBratInAMask



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Vaguely AU but not REALLY
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:40:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27414385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomeBratInAMask/pseuds/SomeBratInAMask
Summary: Derek’s jaw works a few times like he’s trying to calm himself down. He fails, apparently, because when he snaps his head up to glare at Stiles, there’s a vein running more prominently than usual towards his temple.“Why,”he seethes, practically spitting the word, “did you fill this withCheetos!”
Relationships: Derek Hale & Scott McCall, Derek Hale & Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale & Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	my friends are a different breed

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so, I read [this post by sad-stoned-homo](https://sad-stoned-homo.tumblr.com/post/624940017900552192/derek-frantically-searching-through-a-first-aid) and got inspired. Scott snuck into it somehow. Title is from All Time Low's song Vegas because I noticed Stiles has an All Time Low tour poster in his bedroom and I've been obsessed with that band since I was 13 or 14 years old. Which is like. Ten years now. Anyways, had to capitalize on that little fun fact. (Yes, I chose that lyric for the dog joke.)

“Uh, first cabinet on the left?” Stiles suggests. When Derek opens the cabinet to reveal a bunch of pots Stiles didn’t even know he and his dad owned, he says, “Okay, the first cabinet, on the right then….Alright, okay, I know now, it’s the _ middle  _ drawer on the bottom—”

Derek does not follow his last direction, instead reaching for the tiny drawer in the roller cabinet next to the stove that his dad had ripped from someone’s yard. Derek pulls out a First Aid kit and Stiles leans back in his chair by the counter. “See, now, that was going to be my next suggestion if the middle drawer on the top wasn’t a winner.”

Derek turns towards the counter but keeps the box in his hand. “Uh-huh,” he says, raising his eyes to Stiles’s face just to show how little faith he has in him. Unfortunately for Derek, that backfires, because more blood has dribbled from the deep cut on Stiles’s forehead down his left eyebrow. Stiles’s eyelid twitches with the sensation while Derek’s face twists into something between guilt and general irritation. Derek pops the lid open with a curved claw — which, man, either Derek is more stressed by Stiles’s injury or he just uses his claws for the flair factor. 

The plastic lid falls back to reveal a whole pile of Cheetos, the top layer slightly crushed from having had the lid smashed onto them. Stiles nods to himself, remembering, and murmurs, “Oh, yeah.”

Derek’s jaw works a few times like he’s trying to calm himself down. He fails, apparently, because when he snaps his head up to glare at Stiles, there’s a vein running more prominently than usual towards his temple.  _ “Why,” _ he seethes, practically spitting the word, “did you fill this with  _ Cheetos!” _

Stiles’s left eye is now completely closed from the blood running down it. He wipes it again with his shirt sleeve. He’s trying not to make any facial expressions back at Derek because he already made some choice ones when he fell earlier (running, always running) and he learned that the movement made the pain worse. At least Scott had taken the mountain devil out and inconspicuously stuffed its pieces inside an Old Navy shopping bag beneath Roscoe’s passenger seat.

Stiles answers Derek truthfully. “I don’t know. I thought it was funny at the time.”

Derek looks like he’s reached new depths of exasperation, but, of course, that’s just an act, because Stiles has dropped the ball way worse than this in their time as the world’s worst wolf pack. From beside Stiles, a smile starts to tug on Scott’s mouth. “It  _ is _ kinda funny.”

Stiles jerks in his seat and throws out his arms. “Right?!”

Derek drops the First Aid kit on the counter in disgust; two Cheetos go flying and the tabletop has an effective splash zone dusted orange. “Oh, it’s _ hilarious,” _ Derek says in that slightly high-pitched, rattlesnake-calm tone of voice he uses during his more severe bouts of sarcasm. “I can’t wait to hear what the punchline is. How about, ‘Stiles gets an infection and slowly dies in the hospital’? Do you actually have stitches here?”

“Of course, I do. Scott’s mom keeps me surprisingly well-stocked. I just don’t know where they are, apparently.” Stiles turns to Scott. “By the way, does Melissa get, like, discounts on med supplies or—”

Scott scrunches his nose, puppyish. “I think she smuggles them, honestly.”

Derek pushes himself away from the counter with significant aggression and storms upstairs. Stiles watches after him, jaw slack until he feels blood dribble over his lips. “See, now, I don’t think he gets the joke,” Stiles says as he wipes his face on his sleeve again, face tickling. Then he shrugs, sniffs. “It’s fine. It’s a little abstract. I get it.”

“Yeah, but it’s, like, funny,” Scott insists. “Because, you know… you’re bleeding out,” he explains, and that thought paints a fresh layer of guilt on his face until he sees the Cheetos again and chuckles. “And Cheetos. You’ve got this nasty slice on your head…”

Stiles tries to look up at said nasty slice, which is a failed effort since it’s above his eyes, but he tries his best, closing one eye in case it makes the other see his forehead better, his mouth twisting in concentration. “Yeah, it’s gonna need stitches,” Stiles admits, more because the air is starting to burn on it than because he’s managed to see anything.

“Seriously,” Scott concurs, laying out a palm. His explanation is slow, in typical Scott fashion, but he’s smiling, which is more than Stiles can usually say for Scott’s mood when he’s trying to explain things. “And, so, you’re looking for the stuff to,” Scott flutters his hand in the direction of the wound, “help it. But all you can find—”

Stiles’s arms shoot up.  _ “Is Cheetos!” _ he finishes. The boys’ ensuing laughter is interrupted, mid-wheezing stage, by Derek slamming a spray bottle of disinfectant and a thin roll of cloth bandages between them. Derek glares them hard enough to quell Scott’s laughter somewhat, but Stiles is still going pretty strong when Derek says testily, “I’m going to keep looking for stitches. Please, don’t bother helping me. It’s not like it’s  _ your  _ bleeding forehead or  _ your  _ best friend,” Derek points at them each respectively before going off again on his mission to the second floor of the Stilinski household.

Scott stretches over the back of his chair. “I texted my mom! She said she’ll be home in a few hours!” he calls after him.

His figure has fully retreated, but they hear him spit, _ “Great!”  _ Scott’s mouth turns down into a small frown. 

Stiles draws Derek’s provisions closer, frowning at the disinfectant spray. “Hey, out of curiosity, totally casual and with absolutely zero fear — who the hell does Derek think is going to stitch me up?”

Scott’s mouth parts with the realization. “Oh, shit. Well — neither of us can — d _ o that,” _ Scott says falteringly. 

Stiles nods seriously at him, bobbing his head up and down quickly. “Mmhm, mmhm.”

Scott glances over his shoulder. “Derek—”

Stiles levels him with a pleading gaze. “Please don’t let him near me with a needle, Scott.”

From upstairs, Derek yells, “I know how to do stitches!” Both Stiles and Scott look up at the ceiling and then down at each other at the same time. Stiles shakes his head  _ no,  _ and Scott swallows nervously before nodding in agreement.

Some seconds pass, Derek rustling upstairs, Stiles trying to pretend he’s not in pain and Scott probably trying to do the same thing. The blood does start getting irritating, though, and Stiles stands up to wash himself over the kitchen sink. He eyes the disinfectant warily, but eventually puts a brave face on, pats his face as gently as possible with the towel slung over the drying rack, and sprays his forehead before he can think about it. He screams, hits the counter with his knuckles, and then has to squeeze his knuckles with the other hand because now _ that  _ hurts, too. Scott watches uncomfortably as Stiles shakes his red knuckles out and then begins wrapping his head with the entire remaining roll of cloth like the world’s most pathetic concussion patient. 

Once that calms down, Scott allows himself to give the open First Aid kit a considering gaze. Stiles now watches Scott drag the kit towards himself and pop a Cheeto in his mouth. Scott promptly grimaces. “They’re kind of stale,” he comments.  
Stiles looks at Scott in that unique, slack-jawed way of his that is both blankly unsurprised and yet vaguely impressed by Scott’s idiocy. “Yeah,” he says, a little loudly. “I pulled this prank like a year ago.”

Scott has the sense, at least, to look mildly grossed out. But the moment must pass because then he grabs another Cheeto, anyways, and then another. Derek marches down the stairs, angry as ever, and slaps Scott’s hand away from the kit. “Stop eating!” he orders.

Scott looks up at him with wide eyes and a mouth full of orange half-mush. “I’m hungry!” he whines, and it’s clear that, to Scott, this is the best defense he could possibly mount. 

Derek places before them a shoebox with a sticker of Remus Lupin on it. Stiles recognizes it instantly as the box he stored Melissa’s Werewolf Non-Sexy Aftercare Necessities. His stomach goes cold as Derek opens the small box of medical sutures and, eyeballing the length, takes a pair of scissors to them.

Almost as if sensing Stiles is in need of consolation, Scott nudges the open kit of stale Cheetos towards him in a silent offer. 

Stiles does not find this offer appetizing at all if his face is anything to go by, but just as he seems about to decline, his shoulders slump and he shrugs. He grabs a handful of Cheetos and shoves them in his mouth all at once. His teeth have to work through the soft, gritty bread. He swallows a lump of it down. “Wow, not even a crunch. That’s bad,” he says with a scrunched nose. He sighs profoundly. “Alright, Derek Scissorhands. Have at me.”


End file.
